


for peace comes dropping slow

by wraith816



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Future Fic, Incest, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-08
Updated: 2009-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:36:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraith816/pseuds/wraith816
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a home, or a base, or even a place they stay all that often, but in the aftermath of the war, Minnesota's where things happen. It's where things between them change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for peace comes dropping slow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for whenthewarsover prompt #15: _Sam and Dean decide it's time for a much needed vacation. They wind up at a cabin near a lake. There's swimsuits and fishing and sitting on the porch drinking lemonade watching the sunset._
> 
> Thanks to switch842 for the beta and hand-holding. The title comes from Yeats' ["The Lake Isle of Innisfree"](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15529)

There are no beginnings or endings to their story, or maybe it's that there are too many.

* * * * *

It doesn't start here.

The aftermath – when Lucifer's screams from behind his new prison walls still echo in their ears along with the flap of wings that was the angels' final goodbye. Long months when Sam barely speaks, when Dean talks enough for the both of them, all strained smiles and no substance. The car eats up miles of back roads and highways as they leave a trail of dead monsters ( _never demons, anymore_ ) behind them, but hunting doesn't help, not to Sam, not in the face of all the things he's done.

Dean knows this, that crushing sense of guilt for his screw ups, for all the things he's had to do to make it right again. But that's nothing in Sam's eyes; the Apocalypse he brought down around them is no comparison at all, no matter how much that knife in the back in Cold Oak had felt like the end of the world to Dean. It's like those first months after Jessica, like the year before Lucifer, only magnified by a thousand, with sleepless nights and sharp-edged silences that stretch so far between them. It's a fight, not with words, not with blows; it's all in their eyes, in the way Sam keeps shutting down, pulling away, in the way everything Dean says is exactly what Sam doesn't seem to want to hear. It's they way they fucking _grate_ against each other now.

Over the phone, Bobby says once, "Take a break or something. You boys deserve it, you know." Dean starts to protest, but Bobby snorts. "Don't you try that with me now. Just think about it; you could use some downtime."

Dropping off a curse box at Ellen's new place, she eyes them like she knows something, telling Dean, "Bill had a cabin on a lake up in Minnesota, back from before we were married. I try to get up there once a year or so since he passed, make sure it hasn't fallen apart or anything. Otherwise I've got no use for the place and neither does Jo. You and Sam are welcome to it anytime, if you want." She slides a banged-up key ring over the table to him and gives him a look that says she won't take anything but a yes. "It's not much, but it's got water and electric, and it's as well-protected as any hunter's place. A vacation wouldn't kill you." Dean pockets the keys and she nods like he's made the right decision.

The next morning, they start heading north.

 

The cabin is on a little street that's a dozen back roads and a half hour away from anything like civilization, and the drive is another filled with that bone-deep tension Dean's learned to expect now. Sam doesn't really look at him the whole day, not until the car's stopped in the gravel driveway. "Where are we?"

Dean shrugs, says, "Thought we could use a few days off."

"Okay." It's the same kind of one word answer Dean's been getting for far longer than he's comfortable with.

"I'll grab the bags; you go check the place out." He tosses the keys, which Sam catches easily, and then heads to open the trunk.

Once he's done with the car, he makes his way inside, throws their duffels onto a sheet-covered couch and takes a look around the main room. It's pretty bare – not that Dean expected anything else – just the couch, an old antenna TV, a battered table, the kitchenette, and there's nearly as much dust as their average haunted house. There's a huge window that takes up most of one wall and overlooks the lake, and Sam's examining the ceiling above it where there's a devil's trap drawn in faded red.

"Ellen's," Dean says by way of explanation for the protective measures and Sam nods, turning his attention back toward the view.

Leaving Sam to what he's doing, Dean explores. He finds two bedrooms separated by a small hallway on one end of the house, a bathroom with seriously fugly yellow-flowered wallpaper that Bill Harvelle couldn't possibly have been responsible for, and a door out to a screened porch off the back of the house. The porch is in the same condition as the house – a bit worn, in need of more work than Ellen's rare visits can achieve. The white floorboards are losing paint that flakes off in curls that crunch under Dean's boots as he walks in. There's a set of old plastic deck furniture that's seen better days and a ceiling fan that might still work.

The porch has another door, one that leads out into the yard, and so Dean goes through it. The lawn takes an abrupt drop into a large hill a few yards from the cabin, and he follows the steep, weed-covered slope down to the lake where there's a weather-roughened dock jutting out into the water. He steps onto it carefully, testing his weight on the worn boards, and it holds, so he walks out the rest of the way and looks over the small lake. It's late – the heat of the day is just beginning to bleed away and the sun's already halfway down the horizon, leaving the sky and water a brilliant mix of burning golds and reds. Dean's not the kind of guy who sits around and watches sunsets, but it's sort of nice this once, to look out at a view more attractive than that of a crumbling graveyard or a motel parking lot. He thinks this might be it; here, if nowhere else, maybe they can find some temporary peace.

It's nice, but the mosquitoes are out in full force and making a meal of Dean already, so he reluctantly flees back to the cabin. When he comes back in, Sam is unpacking in the bathroom with the door open, setting down a pile of stolen motel towels on the counter next to the shower.

"It's a pretty sweet piece of property they've got here," Dean says.

"Yeah. We staying here long?"

"Not really. A week, maybe? Unless you wanna hang around for a while."

"No, that's fine." Sam grabs his bag from the floor. "I'm gonna go to bed."

"A little early, isn't it?"

"I don't know; maybe."

Dean doesn't have to ask. "You didn't sleep again last night. Sam–"

" _Good night_ , Dean." Sam heads for the bedroom at the back of the house, closing the door behind him.

This is the problem – has always been the problem – the way Sam feels no one else can ever understand his issues, as if he doesn't know that Dean would throw out all his moratoriums on touchy-feely stuff in an instant just to get Sam to explain things to him. Like he doesn't know that Dean bears scars just as twisted as his own. They _need_ to talk; they need to start fixing things before they both implode because Sam is more at war with himself every day, more fucked up and tangled around with guilt.

But there's nothing left for Dean to do tonight except follow his brother's lead, so he goes into the other bedroom and shuts the door. The bed's small and the sheets smell musty even at a distance, but Dean's slept in worse conditions, so he strips down to his boxers and tee without thinking too much of it before he slides under the covers.

He doesn't sleep. It's too quiet like this, without Sam's even breathing only feet away, and Dean almost laughs at how pathetic he's gotten if he can't get to sleep when his brother's not in the same room. He used to be okay with the quiet, back when Sam was still sneaking out with Ruby most nights, but in the time since the Apocalypse, he relearned to need his brother's sound. So now, he lies awake and stares at the ceiling. But he knows Sam's just as sleepless across the hall.

 

There's a Super Target three towns over, and that's where Dean ends up the next morning, pushing an over-filled cart down the too-bright aisles of the food section and picking up all the things he knows Sam likes best. He buys wheat bread and grape tomatoes and orange juice without pulp. He buys plastic utensils and paper plates. He gets clean sheets and a twelve-cup coffee pot and the smallest flatscreen TV they have in stock.

It's late enough in the season that all the summer stuff's half off already, including the seemingly endless rows of garish swimwear. On a whim, he grabs two pair of the least ugly trunks from a rack, one in Sam's size and one in his own. It's been years since he's gone swimming – the time he got thrown off a boat by a human-form selkie notwithstanding – and he thinks that taking a dive or two off the dock could be fun, even if the water looked kinda murky. Making his way to the front of the store, a display catches his eye: it's a shelf full of knockoff Speedos, and a part of Dean's brain, the one that's always looking for a new way to annoy Sam, lights up at the possibilities. He grabs two of those as well, tossing them into the cart and heading for the nearest cash register.

 

Sam helps him unload the groceries when he gets back, and he doesn't make a single comment about all the junk food Dean's bought. He does raise an eyebrow when he gets to the TV though. "You know we're not moving in, right?"

"Ellen said we can crash here whenever we want. Might as well make it more livable. And hey, we don't come back, it's not like we actually paid for it."

As Sam sets the TV box down next to the old set, Dean figures that's the perfect time to spring the swimsuits on him. Dean grabs the bag and throws one of the Speedos right in Sam's face. Sam sputters for a second and then glares.

"What the hell?"

"I'm not letting a perfectly good lake go to waste. You're going swimming if I have to throw you in."

"Like you could." Sam picks up the suit from the floor and his eyes go wide. "You didn't."

"Oh yes I did."

"There's no way in the world I'm wearing this thing."

"It's that or skinny dip, Sammy. Your choice. Either way, I'm dragging you down to that water. Go get changed."

Dean turns and heads down the hall to the bedrooms, where he drops off the regular trunks on Sam's bed before going to his own room to get changed. Sam's door is closed when Dean comes back out, and it's almost too much for him to hope that Sam is actually going to get out of his own head long enough to come along. He goes outside and down to the dock, sits on the end where the rough wood scrapes uncomfortably at the back of his calves.

Half an hour later, Sam still hasn't shown, and Dean has to concede that it's not going to happen. For a moment, he thinks about making good on his threat to drag Sam out naked, but he knows that in the end that would just get him a vocally angry brother in place of their strained silence, no improvement there. So screw it, Dean slides off the dock and into the water by himself. It's a good temperature thanks to the long days of summer heat, but it still feels nicely cool where Dean's skin began to go pink as he waited for Sam. He goes under for a bit, getting used to being in the water for fun instead of work; he comes back up with a breath and starts in towards the middle of the lake. It's easy to lose track of the hours out there, doing laps from the center-most point and back to the dock, over and over again, and it isn't until he looks up to see the beginnings of the sunset that he realizes just how long he's been in the water.

He drips water all over the floor when he comes back in – forgot to bring a towel down with him – and finds Sam seated at the kitchen table, the entire trunkful of weapons spread out in front of him. Dean grabs a beer from the fridge, pops the top off with his ring, and says, "You don't really get the concept of vacation, do you?"

"These needed to be cleaned."

"Not right this minute, they didn't."

Sam doesn't answer, just picks up one of the shotguns and starts tending to it.

Dean sets down his drink, pulls out the chair across from Sam, and grabs the nearest knife; it's fine, doesn't need any work, but Dean goes through the motions of sharpening it anyway.

 

Every day, Dean swims.

He's giving Sam _space_ , as much as he can when they live as closely as they do. He's fed up with trying again and again to make headway when all Sam ever gives him for it is that same stony expression. It's time to let Sam come to him. So Dean swims, around the perimeter of the lake, across its width, or just idly floats somewhere near the middle. He waves to people who pass on their boats, chats up a woman renting a place down the street from them. He tries to tan lying on a threadbare towel on the dock, but all he gets for his trouble is a nasty burn where he missed putting sunscreen on his back.

On their seventh day there, Sam comes down to the lake.

He's wearing the trunks Dean bought the other day and has an apologetic look in his eyes. Dean's so shocked that he maybe almost swallows a mouthful of water. He asks, "You coming in?"

"I was thinking 'bout it."

"Race ya?"

Sam looks out at the lake. "To the other side and back?"

"Sure. Turn-around point is that huge tree over there."

"Sounds good." Sam drops his towel onto the dock and lowers himself into the water.

"On my mark," Dean says. "One... two..." He starts swimming before three, just like he always has. And like rock-paper-scissors, like popping in dislocated shoulders, Sam knew it was coming, taking off right when Dean did.

Moving alongside his brother in the water is nothing like it used to be, all those hours they logged in dingy motel pools teaching Sam how to swim without floaties. Sam was unsure then, a little scared and a little hopeful he could manage to impress Dean, eating up each bit of praise, gaining confidence slowly. There is nothing left of that unsure little boy in the way Sam cuts through the water now. Those swimming lessons paid off, apparently, because he looks like he could be a damned professional the way he moves, keeps his rhythm. They hit the tree on far side of the lake at the same time, and turn back towards their dock in unison.

Things feel normal like this, competing against Sam. It's what they do, have always done, really, and it's like Dean can almost pretend that none of it – the Apocalypse, Lucifer – had ever happened. They're halfway across when Sam begins to take the lead, just a few feet ahead, but Dean gains a little when they're almost there. They both speed up for that last stretch, but it's too late for Dean because Sam slaps his hand against the dock just moments later, the ghost of a smug smile on his face.

"Knew I should've bet you laundry duty on that."

"I let you win."

"Uh-huh. Of course you did," Sam says before he pulls himself out of the lake and onto the dock in one easy motion, and Dean does the same a moment later. They sit side by side, nearly pressed together, legs dangling off the side in the water.

After a minute, Dean notices that Sam is staring at him, a wide-eyed kind of consideration that makes Dean want to squirm under the scrutiny. "Dude, what?"

"What the hell are you wearing? You look ridiculous."

It's then that Dean remembers that he'd swapped out his swim trunks for that tight-fitting Speedo today, and that his goods are practically on display for all to see. "Oh, fuck you," he says and spreads his legs a little wider, touching his knee to Sam's. "I look awesome in these. Women'll be lining up for me any minute."

"I can't believe you," Sam says, but he's smiling like he hasn't in months, his eyes alight with it.

On a dock in Minnesota, Sam is laughing, just a little, for the first time since long before their final battle. They're both still breathing heavy from their race, and Dean can watch the water still dripping from Sam's hair, running down his shoulders and chest. It feels like this, Sam smiling at his side, is the only thing Dean's ever wanted.

"I'm gonna go back in and get some lunch," Sam says, breaking the moment as he stands.

"Make me a sandwich while you're at it, bitch."

"Make your own sandwich, asshole." Sam rolls his eyes and starts for the house.

 

When they head to bed that night, Sam leaves his door open. The sound of his breathing is fainter from across the hall, but it's enough, and Dean feels like an indefinable something is set back in its place. They're not all right, not yet, but for the first time, it feels like they will be.

Sam hands him a page of the Star Tribune over breakfast the next day, and there's a headline circled in red: _Fourth Body Found in Puzzling Indianapolis Murder Case_. They're on their way there by lunchtime.

It doesn't start here, but something does.

* * * * *

One thing bleeds into the next and into another and into more after that.

Two months of hunts. Two months of poltergeists and cursed jewelry and rock salt rounds. They take jobs at a pace they haven't seen since the end of that first year with Sam back; with each one, they fit together a little closer, move a little more in synch. Not perfect, but better. This is what it's supposed to be, Dean thinks.

Until a guy driven mad by a spirit tries to carve up Dean's leg bad enough that it's past Sam's ability to stitch up on his own. He limps into the hospital with a long, bloody gash from above his knee down to his calf, Sam practically carrying him into the ER, and then it's lies and doctors and some pretty awesome painkillers.

He checks out AMA as soon as he's stable, stretches out in the backseat of the car, and falls asleep as Sam drives. When he wakes up, it's as they pass by a _Welcome to Minnesota_ sign. Dean should be surprised, but he's not. They pull up in front of the cabin late that afternoon and he doesn't even protest much as Sam helps him inside.

Dean heals. It's slow; the guy did a number on his leg and bending his knee hurts like a motherfucker, but it looks a little less gross each day. It's going to scar – not the first he's had since Hell, but certainly the worst, bad by even his old standards, before resurrection wiped him clean.

Sam hovers. He gets Dean food and helps him up and is generally a pain in the ass, though Dean is mostly thankful for it. Sometimes he gives Dean this _look_ , one that's been showing up more and more since the last time they came to the cabin, and for all Dean knows about his brother, he can't quite figure this one out. It reminds him of that time with the faith healer, or maybe in the hospital with Dad after the semi, and considering what they're willing to do for each other, he's glad this time wasn't as bad.

 

It's warm for early October, like summer clings on well past when it was supposed to retreat, and the sky slowly fills with clouds that promise rain later in the day. The lake is calm and metal-gray under the darkening cloud cover. Not that Dean knows much about the weather lately, considering how he's been confined to the cabin long enough that he's beginning to go a little nuts. Which is why he's on the dock, seated in one of the battered chairs from the porch, a fishing pole he found in the garage resting in his hand. It doesn't help that itching feeling that comes with too-long in one place, that need for _movement_ that's always in the back of his mind, but it's almost a change in scenery, and that's enough for now.

Dean hears the dock creak behind him and knows it's Sam. He ends up right next to Dean's chair, his hand resting on the back of it. "Walking down here can't be good for your leg," Sam says.

"Man, I'm fine. Barely even hurts anymore." He stretches it out a little, doesn't even wince when the movement pulls painfully at the skin where his knee got cut.

"And if you wanna keep it that way, you shouldn't be climbing down hills. You should stay in the house."

"And die slowly of boredom? No thanks."

"Because sitting on a dock all day waiting for a fish stupid enough to take your bait is so exciting."

"Hey, don't knock it when it's gonna be your dinner."

"You do realize that fish need to be _cleaned_ before you eat them? Do you even know how to clean a fish?"

He claps Sam on the arm and flashes his best 'innocent' grin. "Figured I'd leave the nasty fish guts to you."

"I'd be more concerned about that if you'd actually caught anything yet." Sam kicks Dean's empty fish bucket.

"Give it time, Sammy."

"I'd rather not. Come back inside and I'll make you lunch or something."

"No, I'm good here."

"C'mon, it's gonna rain soon."

"And I'll go back in when it does."

"Up that hill, in the rain, and with your leg."

So maybe Sam has a point – it was hard enough getting down the hill with dry grass, and Dean doesn't want to try it when it's slippery, not when, if he's being honest, his leg still throbs dully. He says, "All right, I'm coming. But I'm not a freakin' invalid."

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, there's a Star Wars marathon on. You haven't missed the metal bikini yet."

"Dude, why didn't you say that in the first place?"

Dean sways a little as he gets up, leg stiff from sitting for so long, and it's enough to knock the chair a little and send him off-balance. He reaches out a hand that lands on Sam's chest – it's that or go head-first into the lake – and Sam's hands wrap around his biceps, holding his tenuous balance; Sam's there to steady him like always. But it's different this time, closer, the way they nearly fall together. Sam's face is only inches from his, near enough that he's looking straight at Sam's mouth, at the way his chapped lips are slightly parted as he breathes. Even through layers of clothes, he can feel Sam's pulse where he still has his hand on his brother's chest.

They stay like that for a moment, quiet and close, Sam oddly not moving, and Dean doesn't pull back for reasons he's not really comfortable examining. The chair's knocked over, Dean's dropped the fishing pole, and he and Sam are still touching. It's not long before Sam finally does move, leaning forward, getting closer, and then they're kissing.

Sam is kissing him.

Sam is kissing him, and it's not tentative, not the kind of kiss you give when things are new and unsure; it's firm and confident, something thought out, something he's wanted for longer than just these past few minutes. Sam's mouth against his is a fulfillment of something that Dean can't ( _doesn't want to_ ) consider too carefully. He doesn't push his brother away, wouldn't do that again, not when they're still so fragile under the weight of the memories of all the ways they've hurt each other. So he stays still, lets Sam kiss him with all that pent up need and feelings they won't name.

Dean lets it happen, but he doesn't kiss back, and Sam notices after a few long minutes, pulling back with fear-bright eyes like he can't be thinking anything but the worst. They stand there for a moment, neither one able to do anything more than breathe harshly in the quiet afternoon. Finally, Sam turns and walks away – like it seems he's been doing his entire life – and makes his way back up to the cabin without a word, leaving Dean still down on the dock.

By the time Dean hobbles back up the hill, Sam's not in the house, nothing but a note ( _gone to town, be back later. – S_ ) to let Dean know he hasn't run off for good.

 

Sam comes back some time near midnight, though he sits out in the car for a good fifteen minutes before he comes into the cabin. Dean's on the couch with the TV on some news channel when Sam walks in, the front door banging closed behind him.

"We should head out tomorrow," Dean says as Sam tosses the keys onto the kitchen table and hangs his jacket over a chair.

"Okay," Sam says before going into his room.

The morning's awkward, maybe even more than Dean expected it to be. Sam won't look at him, keeps his eyes fixed to an insignificant spot somewhere near his feet as they pack up their things. They don't talk – almost end up leaving a bag in the house because of it – and things between them haven't been this strained since the last time they were here.

Loading the car, Sam hands him a duffel and, for just a second, their fingers brush. They both spring back immediately, like that one short moment of contact could drive them back to that crazy wrongness ( _rightness_ ) from yesterday. Dean holds his breath almost without realizing it, waiting to see what Sam might say. But he doesn't say anything, or do anything but continue filling the trunk in silence, still with his eyes on the ground.

It feels to Dean like he doesn't breathe again until they've crossed the line into Wisconsin three hours later.

* * * * *

There's a second time for most things.

Dean sits in the long grass at the top of the hill, looking out at the night sky over the water. The moon is just a sliver, and the only light around comes from the lamp in the porch and from the house next door. There's a party or something over there; the sounds of many voices packed into a small space and a pounding bass line filter over to take away the silence Dean would much rather have.

Minnesota's the last place he wants to be, not when this is where it began, but Sam brought them here this morning, didn't even ask if was okay, like he'd forgotten all about what happened the last time. It's where they lost their minds and Sam kissed him and Dean let it happen. _Something_ started here all those months ago, started with half-caught glances and accidental brushes of skin. More and more of it, with more freakin' _intimacy_ each time, with awkward moves and unacknowledged tension building up until that night.

The night they got each other off.

He won't call it actual sex ( _didn't get that far_ ), just rubbing and touching and one long kiss that lasted through it all. He knows what it's like to lick the taste of alcohol from his brother's mouth; he knows the sounds Sam makes when he's one good stroke from coming. He knows these things like he knows every other thing there is to Sam – thoroughly and with a certainty that can't be matched. It's too much, too close, and he doesn't want a reason to need Sam any more than he already does.

He sits in the dark and tries not to wonder if this thing with Sam was there all along.

 

Dean's been outside for hours when he hears someone approach. It doesn't come from the cabin, and it's definitely someone smaller than Sam, so he turns to look. It's a woman, coming over from the property next door. She's petite and dark haired, the kind of pretty that wins local pageants but doesn't quite hold up to that unattainable Hollywood ideal. She stops a few feet away and offers him a hand.

"Hi," she says. "My name's Carly."

"Dean," he says, and takes her outstretched hand.

"I was coming out for some air and saw you over here, figured I'd come introduce myself. Looks like you were doing some heavy-duty thinking there."

He thinks about it for a moment, about confessing all the ways he's messed up; he thinks about telling her that he maybe has some decidedly inappropriate feelings for his brother, who is currently somewhere inside the cabin being kind of scarily okay with said inappropriate feelings. But he isn't up to seeing the disgust on her face when he says it, not when he feels a little like that himself. "Not really," he lies.

"Don't feel like spilling your guts to a stranger? I don't blame you." She takes a seat next to him, folding her legs and resting her elbows on her knees. "So are you a local or are you vacationing?"

"A friend of ours owns the place, lets us use it whenever we want."

"Us?"

"My brother," he says, trying so hard to sound like it's that easy, like that's still all Sam is to him.

"That's cool," Carly replies. "It's pretty nice up here, for the middle of nowhere. Me and some friends are renting the place next door for a coupla weeks. One last vacation before we start grad school next month." She motions back to her place. "We're having a thing right now, actually. You could come join us, if you want, take your mind off things for a little while. There's free beer," she offers.

Dean almost says no, but the alternatives aren't great – stay here and run mental circles around this _thing_ with Sam, or go inside and do the same. Not really a question, there. He says, "I've never been one to turn down a free drink."

He stands and reaches out a hand to help her up; she takes it, and together they walk next door. Even in the dark, Dean can see that the house is about the same size as the cabin, but newer and better maintained. No protective symbols etched into the walls of this house, he knows. A nice little place for nice, normal people. They head up to the back door and she lets him inside, where the party is clearly just hitting its high point.

"I'll get you a drink." He nods and she makes her way into the crowd.

Dean may not have gone to college, but he's been to college parties, and this is no different than the ones he's attended before. The music's too loud, everyone's too drunk, and he wonders when this kind of thing stopped seeming awesome. The house is full of people ( _all ten years younger than him_ ) and he has trouble finding an unoccupied corner to claim as his own. He stakes out a spot away from everyone else, leans against the wall and watches the party go on around him.

Carly's back at his side a moment later, handing him a red Solo cup full of beer, and he takes it with a nod. "Having a good time?"

"Yeah," he says, though he can't muster up any enthusiasm in his answer.

"You're not a very good liar," she says with a little smile. "This isn't your kinda thing, is it?"

"Not lately." He takes a drink. "But it's better than sitting outside alone. So tell me about yourself."

Carly talks, tells him about studying chemistry at the state university, about her plans for grad school and how her vacation's gone. She talks about her friends and the party and her three little sisters over in Madison. He sips his beer and asks the right questions, smiles at her jokes though he can't bring himself to really laugh when the only thing in his head anymore is Sam, Sam, _Sam_.

He wonders what Sam's doing right now, back there in the cabin, if he's freaking out just as badly. He wonders how long Sam's felt this way, if this is a product of their fucked up lives and the way they can never seem to let each other go. He thinks about how it was to touch Sam that way, of that feeling of _finally_ that he's spent a week trying not to acknowledge. And somewhere, in that little corner of his mind that he doesn't want to listen to, he knows that holding up a wall at this party isn't where he wants to be tonight. But he's got a drink in his hand and a pretty girl at his side, and he's spent years convincing himself that's almost all he needs. So he stays, leaning against the wall and forcing himself to keep making conversation.

The crowd begins to thin at some point as people begin making their drunken way home, and the relative quiet is a small relief. Carly waves off one of her friends, and then turns to say, "It's getting kinda late. Do you need to head back or…?"

She trails off, looking at him intently for a moment – like she's been doing all night – before she leans up for a kiss, soft and fleeting like she doesn't do this kind of thing often. It's nothing like kissing Sam, nothing like the pounding heat and _want_ of it; her mouth is on his, careful and inviting and _safe_ , and all he can think about is his brother. When she pulls back, it would be easy to say yes anyway, just out of reflex from years of charming women in places like this, just to hope he could have a moment when Sam wasn't the only thing on his mind. It'd be easy, but then nothing else in his life ever has been.

He takes too long to reply, caught in his own head, and she says, "This isn't going to happen, is it?"

Dean shakes his head, knows he won't go through with it no matter how much he may want the distraction. He says, "Sorry, I'm just–"

"Hey, don't worry about it. I get it. How you were earlier, and you're not into the party; you've obviously got…" She waves her hand around vaguely. "Stuff. I'm guessing it's somebody. And it's complicated. Right?"

"Don't know the half of it," he mutters and sighs. He pushes himself away from the wall. "I should go."

"You want some advice before you leave?"

"I think I'll get by without it."

She speaks anyway, "Whoever she is, you'll have to talk to her eventually, you know." She smiles like she pities him, and he can't fucking stand it. "Go. Sort it out, whatever it is. Just my loss, I guess."

He gives her a half-hearted smirk, wearing like armor as he says, "Don't get me wrong, any other time…"

"Well, in that case, I'm here 'til the thirteenth if you change your mind. But I don't think you will."

"Yeah. Good night," he says and turns to head for the cabin.

 

It's so late that's it's almost more like early morning by the time Dean gets back, so he turns towards the bedrooms where Sam's door is cracked open. He pauses outside the room, looks in to see Sam still awake, sitting on the bed in boxers and a tee, his back propped against the wall and a book in his lap. He holds his breath and watches, just for a minute, takes in the slope of Sam's shoulders and the length of his body laid out on the bed.

This is the moment, the one that everything hangs on, the last point where turning back is still a possibility. They'll talk, and it'll suck, but they'll lay the blame on alcohol or adrenaline, anything but their own fucked-up-ness. There's still time to get over it, to sweep the whole thing under a metaphorical rug and press on like this feeling wouldn't always be around. Like someday he'd be able to look at Sam and not see everything that matters in the world.

Right.

"Sam," he says as he pushes the door open wider.

Sam looks up from whatever he's reading, meets Dean's eyes for the first time in weeks. He's never looked more like a confused little boy than he does right now, hair hanging in his face and everything he's feeling reflected there in his eyes. And fuck it, he wants to do anything it might take to make his brother's uncertainty go away – it's all he's ever wanted, really.

Something in Dean's head snaps then, like jagged pieces coming violently together to that one truth that's anything but simple: Sam, everything and always. It's fucked up and wrong and wonderful, etched so deep into Dean's bones and heart that it's only conclusion there can be.

"Sam," Dean says again, and then he's crossing the room to straddle Sam on the bed, to put his hand on the back of Sam's head and pull him in for a kiss.

There's no hesitation from either of them this time; Sam goes along easy, parting his lips to let Dean's tongue slide in, meeting it with his own. His hands come up to rest on Dean's hips, not urging on, not yet, just holding them there like he's afraid Dean might run away any minute now. But Dean's not running this time, not when he's maybe finally figured out that this thing between them isn't going away.

They kiss long and slow and somewhere through it, Dean realizes that Sam is hard, can feel the warm press of Sam's erection against his own. Sam must have noticed too, because he pulls Dean's shirt off, pushes down Dean's jeans just enough to get his dick out, and then does the same with his own boxers. Nothing separating them now, Sam pulls Dean closer, letting Dean's weight press him down against the bed, and then they're rutting clumsily against each other, all need and no skill as they thrust their bare cocks together. Dean can't take his hands off Sam long enough to coordinate anything more complicated, doesn't want to think about what that _more_ could entail quite yet.

It's no different than the first time, with the feel of Sam's skin against his, the way Sam's hands clutch desperately at his arms, his back. It still makes him cry out and writhe and nearly fall apart. It's still _good_. And there's still that sick twisting feeling in his stomach when he thinks, _this is Sam. This is my brother_ , but he imagines that's something that will never go away even if they do this for the rest of their lives.

It doesn't last long, of course, couldn't last through their shared urgency. Sam comes first, silent but for a gasp of breath as he spills all over their stomachs. Dean watches, rapt as Sam's eyes squeeze shut with pleasure. A few more thrusts and then it's his turn, and it takes all his effort not to call out Sam's name as he comes, adding to the mess between them.

They still then, sated and breathing harshly, and Sam looks at him wide-eyed like he can't quite believe what they did. Dean can't face that gaze, so he rolls away and onto his back like that could actually give him some _space_. Sam sits up, grabs a towel that's lying on the floor and wipes himself off before pulling his boxers back up and handing the towel over. Dean cleans up and tosses the towel away. He looks to the door, wonders if there's a protocol to excusing yourself from the room after sex with your brother or if he should just get out before things get more strained.

But then Sam mumbles, "Stay," like he knows exactly what Dean's thinking. "Just… stay for now," he says.

It's a bad idea, one of the worst either of them has ever had, but he says, "Okay," anyway.

Sam lies back down, sticking close to the edge of the bed so that only their arms are touching. Dean thinks for a moment that they'll lie there awake all night, tense and quiet and still so fucking confused about where this is heading, but he's lax and sleepy from his orgasm, Sam's soft breathing is there to lull him, and it doesn't take long for Dean to drift off.

 

When Dean wakes up, he's alone in bed, which isn't surprising. He's still in his jeans from the day before, and there's spunk on them from where he didn't bother cleaning up all that well. He finds his shirt where it got tossed across the room, picks it up and pulls it on. He opens the blinds, letting the late morning light in. The bed's a mess, a practical disaster area, so he straightens the covers some. And then there are no more excuses to keep him from going to find Sam.

He's in the main room, seated at the kitchen table with an untouched mug of coffee in front of him when Dean walks in. He looks at Dean, eyes skittish in a way Dean hasn't seen from Sam since he was hiding college applications in a shoebox under his bed. Dean knows there's nothing he could say now to take that look away, and he doesn't want to be the one to start the painfully inevitable conversation that's coming any minute, so he goes to the kitchenette to pour himself a cup of coffee.

He's barely taken the first sip when Sam breaks the silence. "Dean–"

"Don't."

"I wasn't going to," Sam says. "Can we just…"

At the same time, Dean sets down his coffee and interrupts, saying, "Look, let's just admit that it's fucked up and that we liked it anyway and move the hell on."

It takes a minute, but Sam finally answers, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"You said pretty much what I was going to say."

"All right."

They stand there for a moment, Dean leaning back against the counter and Sam still in his chair. Then Sam gets up and crosses the room, plants his hands on the counter on either side of Dean, and leans in for a kiss.

It's not like before; this is soft, gentler in a way that's almost innocent. There's a learned ease to it now, less desperation than all the other times they've kissed. No hands clutching hard enough to bruise, no fighting to control the kiss. When Sam pulls back, Dean unconsciously moves a little closer like he's following to try and capture Sam's mouth again.

"Not exactly sure that counts as moving on," Dean says.

"Yeah it does. Just moving in a different direction than you were planning, is all," Sam says with a smug almost-smile before he goes in for another kiss.

And then they're making out right there in the cabin's main room, pressed up close together all the while. The last bit of Dean's resistance dies there, with Sam's mouth against his on a sunny northern morning. This is a start.

* * * * *

And so this is their middle – they hunt, they fuck, they wrap themselves around each other again and again like it's the only way they can breathe.

They still argue and Dean still does everything he can to be annoying and they still ask for two queen beds. But one bed's just to hold the weapons now, and half their bickering is over whose turn it is to catch the next time they end up naked. Sam's hands linger when he has to stitch Dean up and sometimes Dean has to pretend that he can't see when Sam's expression goes softly fond. Dean can barely remember the last time he followed a girl home. He lets himself try to forget any sense that this might be wrong. It works, mostly.

This is one middle to their story and Minnesota is a footnote; it's something set apart, but no less than vital to understanding how they live their shared life.

They change the wallpaper in the bathroom and repaint the porch. They buy a new couch and a new stove and a bigger bed and sheets the highest thread count credit card fraud can buy. Ellen never gives them the cabin outright, but she calls it their place like it's obvious that's what it is.

They've _settled_. As much as they'll ever be capable of it, at least. Sam is the only thing in his head and in his heart, and that's no longer something that destroys them over and over again.

This is how they are now. This is how they've changed.

* * * * *

Doors close and open, eras start and stop, and there is always something next.

The solstice sun lasts long into nighttime, hanging on above the horizon to reflect shining colors in the water. The ceiling fan beats out a steady turning rhythm overhead; that and the breeze keep it pleasantly cool out on the porch. Dean sits in one of the chairs, nursing a slowly-warming beer in his hand as he looks out over the lake. Sam's asleep in the seat next to him, his neck bent weirdly with how his head rests on his shoulder.

Dean reaches out to touch, to run his fingers over where gray is creeping into Sam's hair, to skim his hand along Sam's thigh. It's comfortable, finally, now that years of twisted worry have melted into this slow ease. It's something he never dared to think would happen, that they could fall so naturally to this. He touches again because he can, because they're here together, in this place that's something like a home. He leaves his hand on Sam's leg, wishing idly that it were skin under his fingers instead of denim.

Looking at his brother, at his hand still on Sam's knee, Dean thinks, _this is how we are now._

For a moment, Dean considers getting Sam up and taking him to the front bedroom ( _their room_ ), undressing him along the way. He thinks about sucking kisses into Sam's neck, leaving marks because Sam is his in all ways and he's allowed. Thinks about all the ways they can make each other come apart. But there's time for that later; Sam's sleeping deep and sound, Dean's still got beer to drink, and the sun isn't quite finished setting. It'll wait.

In the morning, he'll wake Sam with sure touches on warm skin, bring him off while he's still hazy with sleep and half-forgotten dreams. He'll complain that Sam's coffee is too weak and Sam will bitch at him for using all the hot water. They'll spend the day out by the lake with the obituaries, decide where to go next. They'll pack their things and drive away and keep evil things from hurting good people. And they'll come back here, eventually, and do it all over again.

This is not an end and everything's inevitable.

 

  



End file.
